


wellspring

by peacefrog



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, M/M, Pet Names, Reunion Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-20
Updated: 2019-03-20
Packaged: 2019-11-26 02:16:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,701
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18174503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peacefrog/pseuds/peacefrog
Summary: Quentin scours books all day and all night, reading until the words no longer make sense. He catches two fitful hours of sleep on the sofa, and when he can’t sleep anymore he throws his tired bones into the shower, curls in on himself with a sob catching in his throat, covering his mouth so that Julia won’t hear.He touches himself and thinks of Eliot’s skin.





	wellspring

Quentin scours books all day and all night, reading until the words no longer make sense. He catches two fitful hours of sleep on the sofa, and when he can’t sleep anymore he throws his tired bones into the shower, curls in on himself with a sob catching in his throat, covering his mouth so that Julia won’t hear.

He touches himself and thinks of Eliot’s skin.

They had names for one another in Fillory. Silly things. Things he can only whisper now in the dark and to himself so quiet his ears can’t make out the sounds. But his lips know the shape of every syllable, each one slipping from his tongue and flowing into the night, a secret shared by two.

It’s as though a part of himself has been wrenched away. Fifty years. He can hardly conceive of such a thing. This body that he’s in has only been on the earth half as long. It’s impossible. An impossible thing. Quentin thinks of the name Eliot would call him in the darkest hours of night and shivers.

 _Sweetheart._ Quentin would laugh at that, Eliot’s smile tracing a path along his neck, Eliot’s hands touching the softest parts of him and pulling him close.

Quentin finds a bed to crawl into, buries his face in someone else’s pillow. _Darling. Darling._ Eliot had laughed and laughed. “You’ve never called anyone that in your life.”

Quentin had kissed the slope of Eliot’s bare shoulder, whispered, “Maybe no one’s ever made me feel like saying it before.”

Eliot didn’t laugh after that, but he’d made other sounds for Quentin. Beautiful things. Quentin can still hear them echoing in the dark. Can still feel his body moving inside Eliot’s body. Eliot’s body moving inside of him. 

Quentin sleeps for another hour and when he wakes Julia says she’s got a lead, a dealer of rare artifacts in Jersey City, but by the end of the day they’ve got nothing to show for it but sweat-slick skin and a little less ambient magic in the air. And in the dark and quiet Quentin sits at the dining room table, his face in his hands thinking, _Darling, darling, darling._

—

The monster touches Quentin with Eliot’s hands, and for a moment he nearly gives in. Melting into the touch for the space of a single breath before remembering what this is. The monster eyes him curiously and blips away, leaving Quentin cold, aching and relieved at once. _Darling, darling love._

Quentin’s grandparents had been married for forty-seven years. Everyone had always said it was a miracle, how rare for two people to devote themselves to such a love. His grandfather had died holding his grandmother’s hand. Quentin thinks of the years and aches deeply to his marrow. He thinks of the dirt beneath his old fingers after he’d settled Eliot’s body into the ground and his legs turn to water. He collapses onto the sofa and tucks his knees up to his chest. He doesn’t cry, all wrung out and empty. He shuts his eyes and finds no rest.

—

Kady and Julia track down a god stone in Pennsylvania, and though robbing a museum with such limited magic is less than ideal, it all works out so easily in the end. Too easily. They hand the monster his stone and he beams like a child with a carnival prize.

“Not long now,” he says, cradling the stone in his hands.

He blips away and Julia says, “Q, we should probably talk about what’s going to happen when this is over.”

Quentin lets out a sigh and pours himself a drink. “When this is over we get Eliot back. We can worry about the rest later.”

Julia stares at him and says nothing, but Quentin knows exactly what she wants to say. This is reckless. This is dangerous. We have no idea what this thing will be capable of once it pieces its own body back together. We have no idea what this is. Quentin downs his drink and pours another and avoids Julia’s gaze.

“So what now?” Julia asks after a stretch of awkward silence.

His head swimming with exhaustion and whiskey, Quentin says, “I have no idea.”

—

Eliot comes to Quentin in a dream. “Good morning, sweetheart,” he says. It’s the middle of the night.

He’s wearing the shirt Quentin had made for him for his sixtieth birthday in Fillory. His hair’s gone white at the temples. Quentin sits upright, reaches for his figure where it stands next to the sofa, but his hand passes right through.

“Good night, sweetheart,” Eliot says. Morning welcomes itself with a blaze of sunlight through the curtains, and Quentin sits paralyzed as Eliot fades away.

Quentin wakes drenched in sweat and shivering. He goes to the kitchen for a glass of water and when the monster appears at his side he drops the glass and it shatters to the floor.

“Oopsie,” says the monster with Eliot’s mouth, its lips upturned in mockery of a smile.

Quentin steps around the glass and the spreading puddle of water, biting back a snide remark he knows isn’t going to get him anywhere. The monster says “I think… my body is almost complete,” and Quentin’s heart flutters with a hope so dizzying he has to grip the edge of the counter.

“How can you be sure?”

“I put the stones together and I could feel it. One more piece. Somewhere. Inside of a living god.”

Quentin fetches a broom and dustpan, kneels down, focuses on cleaning up the glass, eyes fixed firmly on the floor as he sweeps. “You wouldn’t happen to know which god?”

“No.” The monster kneels next to Quentin, reaches out a hand, methodically runs his fingers along a section of Quentin’s hair. “I’m bored, Quentin. Why don’t we play a game?”

Quentin can’t keep his hands from shaking. He sweeps the last shards of glass into the dustpan and carries it to the trash, amazed his legs will carry him. “How about we just focus on getting your stone?” He turns to the monster without meeting his eyes.

“You’re no fun.” The monster crowds into Quentin’s personal space, steals the air from his lungs. He smells nothing like Eliot, but his eyes. Oh, those eyes. Quentin braves a glance at them and feels it like a fist around his heart. “Find the stone,” the monster says flatly before blipping away.

The water left behind from the glass spreads itself across the tile in long tendrils. Like blood flowing away from a heart. Quentin watches as it inches closer to his toes, thinks of going under, giving in. The puddle seems to grow and grow. He thinks, _Take me. Swallow me whole._

—

Quentin presses his body into his borrowed mattress, imagining the shape of Eliot beneath him. He traces the imagined lines of Eliot’s long limbs with his fingers. He gets himself hard rutting into the mattress, whimpering into his pillow.

He searches the well of his memory, finds the thing that he desires, flips over onto his back and takes himself into his hand. A rainy night in Fillory, the two of them huddled together in the dark. Eliot slipping into him and biting at the back of his neck, gently, just the way that Quentin likes it. Eliot moaning into Quentin’s ear. “You’re so warm. It’s like your skin is on fire.” Quentin’s voice shaking, saying, “It’s what you do to me.” Quentin’s ear filling with beautiful sounds, Eliot crying out his love. _Darling, darling, sweetheart._

Quentin comes with a twisting agony rising in his belly, and when he’s through he’s certain he’s emptier now than he’s ever been. He cleans himself up and pulls his knees up to his chest under the covers, forming the shapes of their names with his silent mouth.

—

“This is literally the worst plan we’ve ever had, Q.” Julia sighs deeply. “You’re talking about summoning a god.”

“You got something better?”

Julia frowns. “Anything is better than this. You don’t even know which god you’re calling on.”

“If the spell works, it doesn’t matter.”

“The entirely untested spell you slapped together this afternoon from scraps found in Marina’s books?” Julia throws her hands up. “What could go wrong?”

“It’s our best shot. The only one we have right now. Harness the power of the stones to call out to their missing link, god shows up, monster gets what he needs, we get Eliot back.”

“You know what happens to magicians who aren’t thinking clearly using untested magic, Q?”

“There’s not enough ambient magic in the air for me to niffin out. The stones will do most of the work. You have nothing to be scared of, Jules.”

Julia searches Quentin’s face with her sad eyes. “There’s something we need to talk about first.”

Quentin ignores her, paces back and forth across the room. “We just need the monster to show up and I can—”

“Q. Stop. Listen.” Julia stops him in his tracks, leads him by the arm over to the sofa. “Just sit down and listen to me.”

A manic energy races through Quentin so completely, sitting feels nearly impossible. He forces himself down, certain he’s going to burst out of his skin. Julia puts her hands on him and he flinches. “Julia, we need to—”

“You need to relax. Just listen to me. How can you be certain this monster’s going to just hand Eliot over to us when he’s finished with him? Who’s to say he can even get into a new body without killing the old one first?”

Quentin’s stomach twists into a tight knot. “There’s no way to be sure until we try,” he says, his voice so small he hardly recognizes it as his own.

Julia pulls her hands away. “Okay, Q, I’m just gonna say it. I don’t think giving the monster the last piece of his body is a good idea.”

“So what do you expect me to do?”

“Maybe we bleed another stone. Maybe we—”

“You’re talking about locking Eliot away with that thing.”

“I’m talking about not releasing that thing onto the world. Is Eliot worth—”

“Yes.” Quentin’s whole body trembles, his hands clenched in tight fists in his lap. “I’m doing this, Julia, with or without you.”

Julia doesn’t respond, doesn’t move. Her face says, _I hate this. I hate this. I’m not going to leave you._ They sit in silence for what feels like hours, and when the monster blips next to Quentin on the sofa he nearly jumps out of his skin. “Shit,” he can’t stop himself from muttering, heart racing, the monster so close he can feel the warmth of his stolen body through the layers of his clothes.

“Have you found my god, Quentin?”

Quentin stares down at his own hands. “No. But we’re going to. Right now. I have a spell, I just need the stones.”

He chances a glance over at the monster, finds him frowning in confusion. “Why do you need them?”

“The spell, uh, if it works—it will work, it will I just… need them. For the spell.” The monster blinks once. “Would you just get them for me… Please.”

In two blinks the monster blips away, blips back with a lap brimming with stone organs. He watches Quentin silently, head moving from side-to-side. Quentin stands up and Julia follows close behind, still silent, the fear on her face filling in the blank spaces of the words.

“Okay, um,” he looks to the monster, “we need to get this furniture out of the way.” 

The monster stares at him from the sofa, cradling his stones. “So you can do your spell?”

“Yes.”

“Okay.”

“I need you to… get up. Please.”

The monster stares at Quentin unblinking for a long stretch of seconds before dragging Eliot’s body from the sofa, the stones nearly spilling from his arms. He shoves the stones against Quentin’s chest, and Quentin struggles to keep from dropping them before Julia and her quick thinking come to the rescue with an empty fruit bowl from the kitchen.

“Okay we just need to—” 

With a flick of his wrist the monster shoves the neat circle of furniture across the room, rug and all. “Kady is going to be pissed,” Julia says under her breath. Quentin looks to her, her face awash with doubt, the bowl in her hands over-filled with the pieces of whatever horror they’re about to bring to life.

Quentin swallows down the lump in his throat, pulls the chalk from his pocket, gets to work at once drawing the sigils on the bare floor. He works like a man possessed, drawing from memory, every step of the spell fresh in his mind because this… this is it. This is the only thing that matters. One last spell. One more god. One more stone. And then—

Sigils drawn. Stones placed. The spell chanted in a patchwork of languages, Farsi and Hebrew and Latin. Julia says something that sounds like static at his back. The monster watches like an animal perched across the room, ready to strike in a blink. “Q,” Julia’s voice cuts through and Quentin ignores it, his hands flowing quickly as his words, the energy of the stones rising and rattling against the floor.

“Q. Q. _Quentin!_ ” The windows shaking, the walls quaking. There is a brilliant flash of light from the circle of stones and the floor sways beneath their feet. Julia takes Quentin by the arm and wrenches him away just as a form takes shape between the circle of organs. And then flesh and a face and a body with no clothes. The bare figure of a slight man with a bow strapped across his back.

Julia digs her fingers into Quentin’s arm as the monster draws near. “Of course,” he says with Eliot’s lips. “Of course it’s you.”

Quentin knits his brows together and looks to Julia. “Is that—”

“Hello, Eros,” purrs the monster.

“Yep, it’s Cupid,” Quentin spits out under his breath.

“You.” Eros pays no mind to Quentin and Julia, eyes fixed firmly on the monster as he approaches. The god lifts a hand in attack or defense but he’s too slow, no match for the speed of the creature using Eliot’s long limbs to strike. The monster punches into Eros’ chest, burying his arm up to the elbow before another word can pass between them.

The god’s stone comes out red and pulsing with ancient magic, blood dripping from the monster’s hand and down onto the floor. Eros’ body crumples, emptied of its life, and the monster flicks him aside like a child swatting an insect.

“Hey,” Julia says, breathless. “Hey. Wait—”

Quentin holds her firmly in place, watching as the monster places the final stone inside the circle. “Let him. Just—”

The ringing in the air hits him before the light. From the center of the circle, a dark figure grows, and Quentin goes to his knees covering his ears against the din. Julia’s hands on him, Quentin’s vision goes dark, the world slipping quickly away. And then light. So much light. It blooms and it becomes him.

And in that light there is laughter, a haunting and familiar sound. The music of Eliot’s joy echoing in some distant place where Quentin cannot reach him.

—

Julia’s voice comes to him softly and then all at once. “Q.” She shakes him harshly, and Quentin opens his eyes with a gasp. “Q. Hey. Hey. Come on. Can you hear me?”

Quentin groans, squinting at her through one half-open eye. “I can hear you,” he mumbles. It hits him all at once then, the remembering, and he forces himself quickly upright. “Where’s Eliot?” he all but shouts, wrenching his body around.

Eliot’s body sits in the center of the room, his hands and the monster’s clothes covered in dried blood, the stone organs gone.

“Is he?” Quentin turns to Julia with wide eyes.

“I don’t know. He hasn’t said a word.”

Quentin jumps to his feet, his legs wobbling and carrying him just far enough to collapse to his knees in front of Eliot. “What happened?” He reaches out, hesitates, uncertain what his hands will find.

Julia’s voice shakes as she explains. “The stones,” she says, “they grew into… something. It was hard to make out. Huge, like a shadow stretching across the room and then… It just looked like a man. Young. Beautiful, actually. And he smiled and said that he remembered and then he was just… gone.”

Eliot’s unfocused eyes flit around the room. Quentin presses a cautious hand to the center of his chest to feel it rise and fall, his strong heart ticking away. “Hey. Hey.” Quentin says, stroking a hand along the back of his neck, finding his skin warm and alive. “Eliot, look at me. Eliot, hey.”

Eliot’s eyes dart to Quentin’s face and he gasps, as though he’s just now realizing he’s not alone in the room. “Hey,” he breathes out. “Hey,” he half-sobs, touching the collar of Quentin’s shirt, his face slack with exhaustion, eyes wide and damp.

“Eliot.” Quentin holds the name in his mouth like a promise. “Eliot. Eliot. Hey.” _Darling, darling, love._ Quentin wants to cry out, by some miracle keeps it together.

“How long have I…”

“Months. It’s been months, El.”

“The monster, he… he’s dead?”

“No,” Julia says. “This was too easy, Q. He’s going to come back.”

“Nothing about this has been easy, Jules,” Quentin says, not taking his eyes away from Eliot for one second, not daring to move his hands.

She’s silent for a moment, then says, “You know what I mean.”

Quentin bites back the tears welling in his eyes. “I do, but can we please… can we please just have a second?”

Eliot’s hands grip the front of Quentin’s shirt. “I think I’d like to try and stand up.” He lets out a tired little laugh.

“Okay. Yeah, yeah, come on. Jules, can you help us?” 

Quentin and Julia help to get Eliot to his feet, his long legs unsteady as a newborn foal’s. “What the fuck am I wearing?” Eliot blurts out once he’s found his footing and looks down at himself. The three of them burst into a fit of hysterical laughter at once, months of tension and exhaustion suddenly pouring out.

But Quentin’s laughter turns quickly, and he’s launching himself into Eliot’s arms without another thought. “Fuck. Eliot,” he sighs into Eliot’s chest, Eliot’s arms pulling him close, Eliot’s hands cradling the back of his head. He shuts his eyes and melts into the touch, gripping the back of the filthy sweater the monster’s dressed him in.

Eliot kisses the top of his head. “I really need a fucking bath” he laughs through his own tears. “And I feel like I haven’t slept in about three months.”

“You haven’t,” Quentin mumbles into Eliot’s chest. He just keeps holding on. 

“I’m gonna… give you two a minute,” Julia says softly from somewhere behind them, her footfalls moving away.

And Quentin just keeps holding on. Quentin doesn’t imagine he would like to ever let go.

—

Eventually, they peel themselves apart, and Quentin leads Eliot upstairs to the master bedroom, the en-suite and its oversized tub. Eliot washes the blood from his hands in the sink, and Quentin helps Eliot strip out of the monster’s clothes while the tub fills. “Do you remember our tub back in Fillory?” he asks, tossing the blood-spattered t-shirt to the floor.

“That was the best tub,” Eliot says with a far-off glint in his eyes.

“It really was.”

Eliot sits on the edge of the tub and kicks off his shoes, Quentin peels away his socks, helps him wiggle out of his pants. He curves a hand over Eliot’s bony knee and lets his eyes sweep over the expanse of his bare flesh, finds it painted in a patchwork of bruises both fresh and fading. Quentin presses his lips gently to one darkening Eliot’s inner thigh. “I’m sorry, El,” he says weakly, Eliot’s hand stroking through Quentin’s hair.

“What are you sorry for?”

“I should have taken better care of you.”

“Q…” Eliot’s hands find Quentin’s face. He parts his lips as if to speak but no words come.

Quentin swallows back a swell of emotion. _Darling love._ He wants to press his lips to Eliot’s lips so terribly he’s sick with it, but some small voice in the back of his mind tells him to save it. _Soon, my love, soon enough._ He pulls away and shuts off the tap, tests the temperature of the water with his fingers and it’s perfect. “Come on,” he says, watches as Eliot stands and shucks off his underwear, kicks them aside. He steadies himself on Quentin’s arm as he dips his toes into the water, then sinks like a stone down into the tub.

Eliot moans loudly the moment his body is submerged. “Fuck, that’s good.” He shuts his eyes and leans his head back, sinks his body in a little further.

Quentin sits on the tile and leans his head against the cool porcelain of the tub. He slips his hand into Eliot’s hand. They’re quiet for a long time, and just when Quentin begins to think Eliot has dozed off he says, “I should be the one apologizing to you, Q.”

Quentin pulls back to look at him. “What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean. All I could do trapped inside my own mind was think and remember. I didn’t mean to break your heart, Q, I—”

“You didn’t.”

“I did.” Eliot offers him an exhausted smile. “The worst part is I didn't mean a word of it. I need you to know that. More than anything.”

Quentin squeezes Eliot’s hand. “As long as you’re in my life, El. That’s all that matters.”

“You deserve more than that, Q. And so do I. And if this god-monster doesn’t kill us tomorrow or next week or… I want it to be like it was before.”

“In Fillory?”

“In Fillory.”

“I’d like that.” Quentin threads his fingers into Eliot’s, sighs, rests his head against Eliot’s shoulder.

—

Eliot sleeps for twelve hours and when he wakes Quentin brings him breakfast in bed. And when he’s finished eating he sleeps for twelve hours more, Quentin’s body tucked in beside him, holding him close.

—

Quentin uses up all the ambient magic for three square blocks to put a ward up on the bedroom door. “No one is interrupting us tonight.” He turns to Eliot where he’s perched on the edge of the bed. “Not for anything.”

For a moment Quentin is frozen in place. All he can do is stare. Eliot on the bed, bare save for the pair of dirty black pants the monster had dressed his body in. Eliot watching him with his clear eyes, the way they spark in the lamplight. His lips parted, he reaches out.

“Come here,” he says, and Quentin wills his legs to move.

A step closer now, but still too far away to touch, Quentin asks, “Do you remember... what you used to call me back in Fillory?”

Eliot offers Quentin a smirk. “I remember calling you a lot of things, Q.”

“You know what I mean.” Quentin steps forward once, twice. “You know.”

Eliot cocks his head to one side, his expression soft. “Do I know?”

Quentin can’t help but laugh. “You know.” Closer. Closer. “El…”

Eliot reaches for Quentin with both hands. Softly he says, “Come here… sweetheart.”

 _Darling. Darling. Darling._ Quentin presses forward, falls into Eliot’s lap, tangles his fingers in Eliot’s hair and licks into his mouth. It’s like learning to breathe again, for the first time. He is reborn, out of the water and into the air. Eliot’s hands push up under the back of his shirt, and Quentin moans into Eliot’s mouth in joyous agony.

Quentin breaks the kiss, craving Eliot’s skin on his skin. They laugh fumbling at the buttons of Quentin’s shirt, but Eliot’s deft fingers work quickly. He pops the last one open and at once his lips are on Quentin’s skin, teeth nipping at his collarbone, fingers pressing up along the curve of his spine. They fall down onto the bed in a tangle of limbs. Quentin presses Eliot down into the mattress with his hips, straddles his lap, sucks a line of kisses down the slope of his neck, his shoulder.

Eliot’s pushes his hands down the back of Quentin’s jeans. He says, “Tell me how you want it.” 

Quentin’s breath stutters in his chest. He says, “You know. You know.”

Eliot steals a kiss from the corner of Quentin’s mouth, nuzzles into him. “I do. But… I wanna hear you say it.”

Quentin sits back, blushing, skin alight. He shrugs off his open shirt and tosses it down to the floor. He presses a hand to the center of Eliot’s chest. “Eliot,” he drawls, rolling the name around on his tongue. “Eliot. You know.”

Eliot runs his hands up Quentin’s thighs, slowly, methodically. “Q. Say the words for me.”

Quentin’s skin flushes impossibly brighter, all the way up to his ears. It’s too much, not enough. Eliot’s fingertips play at the waistband of his jeans. “I want it, Eliot. El…”

“Q…” Eliot ghosts a hand over Quentin’s arousal where it strains his zipper. “Hey. Come on. Look at me. Don’t look away.”

Body trembling, Eliot’s eyes locked with his eyes, Eliot’s hands slowly pulling him apart, Quentin pushes out, “I want you inside of me,” softly, half a whisper, the words all running together.

Quentin gasps when Eliot takes him into his arms and rolls him onto his back, pins his wrists high above his head. “You took care of my body when it wasn’t my own. I know that you did,” he says, pressing a kiss to the hollow of Quentin’s throat. “Now, I’m going to take care of yours.”

Eliot nudges Quentin’s thighs apart and settles between them, and as the weight of Eliot’s body covers him, Quentin feels another weight lifting from him entirely. He is coming together, he is falling apart. Eliot has consumed him, a hand curling gently around Quentin’s neck as he kisses him deeply. Eliot rocks his hips. The layers between them are agonizing, and when Quentin whimpers Eliot laughs against his mouth and pulls away.

“Let’s get these off,” he smirks, already working his own belt open.

But Quentin’s hands are shaking so terribly he can hardly get his fly undone. Eliot smiles, making quick work of Quentin’s zipper, pulling his pants and boxers off with practiced ease. He strips himself of his own final layers and blissfully returns to rest between Quentin’s parted legs, their hard cocks sliding together with the gentle rocking of Eliot’s hips.

Eliot kisses Quentin’s mouth, his jaw, his neck, the slope of his shoulder, dragging his teeth along the path of fire left in the wake of his lips. “My love,” Eliot whispers, pressing his lips to the center of Quentin’s chest. “Sweetheart.” He lavishes Quentin’s nipple beneath the skilled rolling of his tongue, moves to the other. “I’m going to make love to you.” He moves down Quentin’s body, kisses the softest part of his belly, hums happily, shuts his eyes, nuzzles against the rise of his hip.

Quentin can’t bear to look away. He tangles his fingers in the mess of Eliot’s hair. The air is free of magic but it’s alive on Quentin’s skin, Eliot’s lips a wellspring pouring out his love. He nuzzles against the head of Quentin’s cock where it rests aching against his belly and Quentin moans audibly, arching his back up off the bed. 

“Oh, it has been too long hasn’t it, Q?” Eliot laps at the pre-come pooling near Quentin’s navel. “But I need you to stay with me. I intend on taking my time.”

Quentin tries to speak, but it’s more than he can bear. He babbles something that sounds like Eliot’s name, feels all the empty spaces in the heart of him filling to the brim at the touch of Eliot’s lips. _I love you,_ he thinks dizzily. _I think I’ve loved you for all of time._

Eliot takes Quentin’s cock into his mouth agonizingly slow, a man intent on savoring every morsel of his feast. _Devour me, devour me,_ Quentin thinks. _Devour me. Swallow me whole. Let there be no part left of me when you’re through._

Quentin’s body is a live wire as Eliot takes him deeper and deeper into his mouth. Eliot moans like he’s never known such pleasure as this, Quentin on his tongue and slipping into his throat. Quentin buries his face in his hands, desperate to hold on for Eliot’s sake. He thinks of all the timelines where they didn’t end up together, but the thought of such a thing is too much to bear. But then he thinks, _we created this_ , each timeline only possible because of the reward given for their love. And in that sense, their love has been the beginning and the end of all things. Their love has created itself, time and again. Quentin flushes with the realization and nearly tips over the edge.

“I’m not gonna last,” he whines, pleasure rising like the tide in his belly. “Please, El. Please.”

Eliot pulls back, his mouth slick and glistening. “Please what?”

Quentin laughs. “Don’t be a dick.” Eliot just grins from ear-to-ear and kisses the head of Quentin’s cock. “Come on,” Quentin whines again, nudging Eliot gently. “El…”

Lamplight glinting in his eyes, Eliot sits back on his heels. He locks eyes with Quentin and teasingly strokes his own cock from root-to-tip. Quentin, stricken dizzy with wanting, can only stare through hooded eyes, part his thighs wider in invitation. _Please, please, please. Darling, darling, darling._

Eliot smirks, grabs a pillow, shoves it under Quentin’s hips. He presses two fingertips to Quentin’s lips and Quentin takes them in, lavishes them with his tongue until they come away dripping. Quentin cants his hips, opening himself to Eliot completely, and Eliot drags his slick fingers over Quentin’s hole.

“This won’t be like in Fillory, Q. This body hasn’t… not in a long time. I’ll have to go...” Eliot presses the tips of his fingers in ever-so-slightly. “Slowly.”

Quentin whimpers, coming out of his own skin with desire. He shuts his eyes and focuses on the point of contact between them, wills his body to open. This is all that he wants, all that he’s ever needed. Eliot’s body slipping into his body, punctuating each slow press of his fingers with sounds sweeter than any music.

And when he’s slick and open and all but pleading for it, Eliot pulls back, drags a hand down Quentin’s abdomen. “Tell me if it’s too much,” he whispers, spitting into his palm and slicking himself. And when he slowly, achingly begins pressing in, Quentin thinks, _Darling, sweetheart, love. This could never be too much. This could never possibly be enough._

Eliot gives a shallow thrust of his hips, pulls back, slicks the join of their bodies with more spit. He presses in slowly, slowly, and Quentin reaches out for him. “Come here, please,” he breathes out, pulling Eliot down to lie against his chest. “Deeper,” he whispers into Eliot’s ear. “I wanna feel you deep.”

“Fuck, Q.” Quentin cages Eliot in with his legs, drawing him deeper inside, and when Eliot bottoms out he lets out a sound that’s half sob, half laugh into the crook of Quentin’s neck. “Fuck.”

Eliot rolls his hips once, slowly, barely moving at all, and Quentin knows right away that he’s not going to last. He’s never felt so impossibly full, so gloriously split in two and stitched back whole all at once. He laughs against Eliot’s lips, runs his hands down the expanse of his back. “I’m sorry.” 

“Why are you apologizing again?” Eliot breathes against Quentin’s lips, each of his short thrusts like lightning in Quentin’s veins.

Quentin runs his fingers through Eliot’s hair, along his scalp, nuzzles into his cheek. “I’m so close. So close. Fuck, it’s been so long…”

Eliot kisses him deeply, thrusts hard once, twice. Quentin holds him closely and whimpers, uncertain he’s ever known such pleasure. His cock trapped between their writhing bodies is just enough to send Quentin tipping over that impossible edge. He comes slowly, warmth spreading from his center and setting all of him ablaze with gentle fire. He digs his fingers into Eliot’s back and sucks a bruising kiss into his shoulder as he rides the waves of his release. And as if on cue, Eliot cries out, his hips faltering, his orgasm ripping through his body in such a way that Quentin swears he can feel it.

 _Darling. Sweetheart. My love._ Eliot collapses against Quentin’s chest, their bodies slick and panting and tangling together. Quentin presses a kiss into his hair. “I promise we’ll make it last next time,” he drawls.

Eliot’s body shudders in a silent laugh. “We’ve got all night.”

“We’ve got the rest of our lives.”

“If a god-monster doesn’t kill us first.”

And Quentin has to laugh at that, because he knows that each second passing between them now is a gift. And that Julia was right, this was all too easy in the end. And that tomorrow this could all be gone. Might very well be. But for now, Quentin can’t allow himself to care. This moment, Eliot’s skin against his skin. This is what he has been fighting for. This is what he will fight for again and again.

Eliot nuzzles into Quentin’s chest, sighs, asks, “Do you ever think about him?”

Quentin lazily cards his fingers through Eliot’s hair. “Who?”

“Our son,” Eliot says easily, as though it’s the most obvious thing.

The words are like a balm and a wound to Quentin’s heart. “Yes,” he all but whispers.

“Do you think we’ll ever… do that again? Have a family.”

Quentin draws Eliot nearer, shuts his eyes, breathes in the scent of his hair. “I hope so,” he breathes out. 

Eliot smiles against Quentin’s skin. “So do I."

**Author's Note:**

> I have officially spent too much time with this fic. Words no longer make sense. My eyes ache and my heart aches but tbh it's always worth it for these two.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic of] wellspring](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20855702) by [exmanhater](https://archiveofourown.org/users/exmanhater/pseuds/exmanhater)




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